One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  Reluctantly she obeyed, her sightless gaze going back to the stage. Gradually Stephen’s grip on her hand relaxed. It happened none too soon. The first interval had arrived, and with it a knock on the door of the Ashburton box. She gave her husband an agonized glance. “Stephen…?”

  He opened his eyes, and she saw the flat gray color of pain. “I’m fine.” After a visible effort to collect himself, he raised his voice. “Come in.”

  Rosalind released his hand and swiftly changed chairs so that she was between Stephen and the door. That way visitors wouldn’t see him quite so clearly.

  She wanted to shriek at everyone to leave. Instead, she smiled and acknowledged introductions, deliberately drawing most of the attention to herself. She was not beautiful, but she knew enough of acting to give the illusion of vivacious beauty.

  As she played the belle, Stephen slipped into the role of fond, indulgent husband, saying little and not moving from his chair. For someone watching as closely as she, it was obvious that he was not well, but no one else seemed to notice.

  It was a relief when the next act began. Several people lingered, as if hoping to be invited to stay, but she gave them Maria’s most aristocratic glance and they left.

  As the next act began, Stephen said with humor lacing his strained voice, “You’re taking to this duchess business with remarkable speed.”

  She took his hand again. “I will play whatever role you wish of me.”

  “The only role I want is that of wife,” he said softly.

  She smiled and lifted his hand to her cheek. “That is not a role, but the reality.”

  The rest of Othello passed without incident. She managed to persuade Stephen to leave before the farce began, but only by claiming she was tired, which was true. Even though her husband was gray with fatigue, he would not have left for his own sake.

  On the ride home, he asked, “What did you think of Edmund Kean?”

  “He’s a very powerful actor. I can see why he’s earned such a reputation.” She hesitated. “No doubt it’s daughterly prejudice, but I think that Papa is his equal.”

  “I agree.” He took her hand. “You were a great success. I trust that allays your fears of how society will see you?”

  “Most of them.” She returned the squeeze of his hand. “As long as you’re with me, I’m safe. Everyone likes you.”

  “I haven’t been duke long enough to make many enemies,” he said dismissively.

  She noticed, not for the first time, how he brushed off compliments. Perhaps that was because he, too, had been raised to believe that he could never be good enough.

  They made the rest of the trip in silence and retired as soon as they reached Ashburton House. For the first time since their marriage, they did not go to bed and make love. Instead, Stephen fell asleep in her arms, his head on her breast.

  Tenderly she stroked his back and shoulders. The role of wife had dimensions she had not expected. She must be not only his lover and friend and companion but his conspirator, for she was not the only one with something to prove.

  Though she could not save his life, she made a vow to do everything within her power to help him save his pride.

  Day Thirty-eight

  The next day dawned with a pale autumn sun. Since their destination was miles to the east, Stephen had hired a six-oared wherry, one of the long rowboats that carried passengers along the river. Not only would a boat be smoother than a carriage but faster.

  He also took some precautions because the neighborhood they were going to visit was not a particularly safe one. One of the precautions was asking two of his footmen, both veterans of the late war who had served under his brother, to accompany them in normal clothing instead of their usual aristocratic livery. It was all very well to risk his own rather worthless life, but it wouldn’t do for Rosalind to be endangered.

  Rosalind was enthralled by the trip, studying the sculls, lighters, and barges that glided over the water in all directions. “I had no idea the river was so busy,”

  “London would not exist without the river. If you think it’s busy here, wait until we get below London Bridge, into the Pool of London. That’s where the great seagoing ships are moored. Since you were found in that area, you probably came to London on either a coastal or cross-channel vessel.”

  She nodded, her gaze going up to Blackfriars Bridge as the wherry shot through one of the arches. Stephen studied her rapt profile, enjoying her pleasure in new sights. He wondered if she would remarry among the nobility. She had entranced every man she’d met the night before at the theater. Granted, high sticklers would not approve of her actress past, but soon she would be a rich and lovely widow. She could have almost any man she wanted.

  He considered who might be good enough for her, then decided that he was not ready for such an exercise in self-torture. He’d ask his brother to look out for her and keep the fortune hunters away.

  The Pool of London was jammed with sailing ships at anchor and the swarming lighters that carried the cargo to the quays. The wherry slowed as the oarsmen chose their route carefully. Soon they passed the massive, forbidding walls of the Tower of London.

  Stephen told the boatmen to moor at the first set of water stairs to the east of the Tower. That would put them in the St. Katherine’s area. If Rosalind remembered correctly, the Fitzgeralds had found her there. After giving his footmen orders to follow at a distance, he helped his wife from the boat.

  She stepped onto the dank stone water stairs, then swayed, her face pale. “That smell!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never forgotten that. We must be close.”

  The odor was a distinctive combination of the filth of crowded humanity combined with the stench of rotting fish on the mudflats, the tang of hops, and a faint, exotic trace of cargoes from foreign lands. Interesting, but hardly pleasant.

  He frowned at her pallor. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  She took a firm grip on his arm. “No. But I want to do it anyhow.”

  They climbed the steps to the bank and chose one of the narrow streets at random. The dilapidated houses on each side were darkened by coal smoke and age. After they had walked two blocks, he asked, “Do you recognize anything?”

  She looked around, pulling her cloak more closely even though the morning was not cold. “No, but the look is right. There was a church, and a brewery.”

  “St. Katherine’s church is nearby, and there is certainly a brewery—I can smell the hops now.” He guided her around a pile of unidentifiable trash. “There’s talk of tearing down the whole neighborhood to build another enclosed dock like the ones used by the East India Company. None of this would be much of a loss.”

  They went deeper into the maze of filthy streets. Rosalind scanned the neighborhood with restless eyes. “It’s quieter than I remember.”

  “I thought it best to come early in the day.” He caught a quick, furtive movement from the corner of his eye. A rat. “Those who have jobs are at work, and with luck the ungodly aren’t up yet.”

  She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Stephen had the incongruous thought that she was like a flower growing in a byre.

  A filthy, ragged man was coming toward them, his ferretlike gaze curious. Even though Stephen and his wife wore their plainest clothing, they stood out in such mean streets. The man studied Rosalind with insulting thoroughness as he passed.

  Her fingers clamped on Stephen’s arm. “That man…” Her words caught.

  “Do you know him?” He looked over his shoulder, but the man was already gone.

  “No, he wouldn’t be old enough. B-but he reminded me of someone from then.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

  Grimly preparing for the worst, Stephen asked, “Did that other man hurt you?”

  “He…he offered me something to eat,” she said haltingly. “A sausage, I think. I didn’t like the way he looked at me, but I was so hungry I took the food. He caught me, and, oh, God, he kissed me and…and put his hand und
er my skirt. He stank, and his tongue…I thought he was trying to eat me.” She wiped her mouth again, hand shaking.

  Feeling homicidal, Stephen said, “He molested you?”

  “Only to a point. I bit his tongue until it bled, then ran away when he screamed and dropped me.” She made an effort to collect herself. “I managed to keep the sausage. As I recall, I hid in a mound of trash and ate it there.”

  Stephen felt a terrible combination of helplessness and rage as what she had endured came to vivid, horrifying life. “How did you survive? Where did you sleep?”

  She began walking again, her steps quick and tense. “There are plenty of small corners that a child can squeeze into. Of course, other things hide there.” She tugged her left sleeve up, revealing a small, almost invisible scar under the elbow. “That’s from a rat bite.”

  He wanted to take her in his arms and carry her away from this place, back to the wherry and the safety of Mayfair. But she wanted this, so he controlled himself. “Does anything bring back memories of your life before you were orphaned?”

  “The boat that brought me to London,” she said slowly. “It was a rough voyage.” She paused, then said with surprise, “We sailed from a place where they spoke French, and I understood it. At least, I understood as much as a child that age understands anything.”

  “With whom were you traveling?”

  “A woman.” Rosalind came to a halt, her eyes unfocused. “I wasn’t sick, but she was. I remember bringing her something to eat. She groaned and told me to go away. I couldn’t understand why she was so unwell.”

  “Was the woman your mother?”

  “No!” Rosalind said sharply. “Not my mother.”

  He wondered what caused her vehement denial. But now was not the time or place to probe more deeply. He tucked her arm in his and started walking again, turning a corner into another street. As Rosalind had said, it was quiet. Several times he sensed someone watching from a grimy window, but the few people they passed on the streets regarded them with indifference.

  As he warily avoided a thin, slinking dog, he said, “Now that I see the place, it’s easier to understand why no one bothered to help an orphaned child.”

  She smiled bleakly. “How much I owe the Fitzgeralds. I trusted Maria immediately. I…I think she reminded me of my mother. When she picked me up and asked me if I wanted a new mama and papa, I remember very clearly vowing to myself that I’d never, ever cause her any trouble.”

  “And you didn’t. Thomas said that you were the perfect child.” Stephen smiled a little. “Unnaturally so.”

  “I was afraid that if I was bad, they’d bring me back here.” She nervously brushed her hair away from her face. “Nonsense, of course, but I could never put the idea entirely out of my mind.”

  Stephen’s stomach clenched with pain at the thought of the terror Rosalind must have lived with for years after her adoption. “No wonder you were unnaturally good.”

  They turned another corner. In the middle of the block, an ancient woman sat on the steps of a decaying house, a clay pipe clamped between her gums. Rosalind gasped. “I recognize her! Or at least, there was a woman who would sit outside like that every day. Old Molly. I…I think that she was married to a sailor, so she spent much of the time when he was at sea watching what happened in the neighborhood.”

  “Could this be the same woman?” Stephen asked.

  Rosalind bit her lower lip as she thought. “Molly seemed very old then, but her hair was dark. This woman looks just the same, except that her hair is white and she has more wrinkles. I think it really is her.” Rosalind scanned the dingy buildings. “Because this is the street where she lived. I remember the odd shape of those building facades.”

  “The style is Dutch.” Stephen tried to imagine how the street had appeared to a small, frightened child. It wasn’t a happy thought. “Is there any particular reason why you remember her after so many years?”

  Rosalind nodded. “Thomas and Maria found me right here, and Molly was watching when it happened.”

  “Then let’s see if she remembers that day, too.” Keeping a steady hand on Rosalind’s elbow, Stephen approached the old woman. She drew in on herself but didn’t attempt to flee. Her face was so lined and weathered that she might well have spent a good part of the last few decades sitting outdoors.

  “Good day,” he said politely. “My wife would like to ask you a question.”

  The old woman removed her clay pipe. “Aye?”

  “A long time ago—twenty-four years—there was an orphaned child in this neighborhood who lived by scavenging scraps,” Rosalind said. “Do you remember that?”

  The old woman shrugged. “Lots of orphans.”

  “This one was a very small girl.”

  The old woman drew on her unlit pipe reflectively. “Oh, aye, her. Not many little girls on the streets. They worth more in a whorehouse. Dark-haired man and woman took ’er. Didn’t look like whoremongers, though mebbe they were.” She looked up at Rosalind, and her gaze narrowed. “Be you that girl? Not be many with blond hair and brown eyes.”

  Rosalind nodded.

  The old woman’s gaze went to Stephen. “If this be your husband, you done well for yourself, girl.”

  “Believe me, I’m very aware of that,” Rosalind agreed. “You were good to me, too. You gave me bread once.”

  “Not give.” The crone cackled. “Old Molly don’t give food away for nothin’.”

  “That’s right, I traded you something,” Rosalind said slowly. “But I can’t remember what I had to trade.”

  “Handkerchief,” Molly announced. “Fine stuff, pretty stitching. Kept it for a long time, then sold it for two shillings.”

  Rosalind caught her breath, her eyes widening. “A handkerchief. Can you remember what it looked like?”

  Molly screwed her face up. “Flowers. Some kind of animal, and a letter. M, it was, like my name.” She cackled. “Almost kept it ’cause of that.”

  Rosalind said tensely, “Stephen, do you have paper and a pencil?”

  He produced a pencil and a folded letter. Rosalind swiftly sketched a small square with a stylized lion in one corner and an elaborate initial M in the other, with a scattering of flowers around both. Showing the drawing to Molly, she asked, “Did the embroidery look like this?”

  The old woman squinted at the sketch. “Aye, that’s it. ’Twas yours, then.”

  Stephen took Rosalind’s free hand. It was trembling. To Molly he said, “Do you remember anything else about how my wife came to be on the streets?”

  Molly shrugged. “’Twas said a wherry brought ’er and an old woman from a sailin’ ship. Woman had some sort of fit soon as she stepped onto the quay. As she was dyin’, a guard tried to catch the girl and she run off. So ’twas said.”

  An old woman. That confirmed Rosalind’s belief that she hadn’t been traveling with her mother. “How long was my wife on the streets before she was adopted?”

  “Two months mebbe. Don’t remember.”

  So Rosalind had spent perhaps eight or nine weeks living in filth, dodging rats and perverts, scrounging food scraps whenever possible. Sixty days, maybe more. The thought made him almost physically ill and redoubled his resolve to do something for Thomas and Maria. He inclined his head to Molly. “Thank you, madame.”

  She gave him a toothless smile. “A fine gent like you must have somethin’ for old Molly’s help.”

  He pulled a gold coin from his pocket-a year’s salary for a housemaid—and gave it to the old woman. Cackling gleefully, she went inside with her gold before he could change his mind and take it back.

  Stephen examined Rosalind’s sketch. “This lion looks like it might be from a coat of arms. Do you remember anything more about it?”

  Rosalind shook her head. “The image just jumped into my mind.”

  He traced the elaborate initial. “I wonder if your real name begins with M. Mary? Margaret?”

  Rosalind gasped and backed away from hi
m, her face going dead white. “Oh, God. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

  Wondering what dark memories had been stirred by his words, Stephen put his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll go home now,” he said soothingly. “It’s all right, Rosalind. Whatever happened then, it’s all right now.”

  She looked up at him with dazed eyes. “It will never be all right again.” And she spoke in French.

  He’d been a damned fool to agree to bring her here. Taking Rosalind’s arm, he turned back toward the waterfront. “We’ll be on the river soon, and then home. You don’t ever have to come back here, little rose. Never again.”

  She walked blindly, stumbling sometimes on the rough ground. His concentration on her made him less watchful. Then they turned a corner and almost walked into a burly man with a wickedly gleaming knife held low and menacing in one hand.

  “Give me the gold, guv,” the thief said menacingly. He was tall and flabby and stank of whiskey. “I saw you give some to old Molly, but I bet there’s plenty more for me.” His mouth stretched in a gap-toothed smile. “Be quick about it, and I won’t cut you or the lady.” But his gaze went to Rosalind and lingered speculatively.

  She shrank back against Stephen and gasped, “No. No.”

  The rage that had been building since they’d stepped ashore exploded into swift, lethal violence. Stephen kicked the hand holding the knife, sending it spinning through the air. Then he moved in with a hard right fist that knocked the man to the ground.

  The thief bellowed an obscenity. Stephen whipped out his pocket pistol, cocked it, and aimed it between the man’s eyes. His finger was squeezing the trigger when he saw the terror in the bloodshot eyes. Poor bloody bastard.

  Reminding himself that if one goes into a snake pit, one should not be surprised to find snakes, he eased off on the trigger. “Find an honest line of work,” he said icily.

  His two footmen, who had been told to stay well behind, came around the corner. Seeing trouble, they barrelled down the street to Stephen’s side. “Your Grace, are you and the duchess all right?” the taller one exclaimed, his face ashen.